In the Light of Day
by Syldana
Summary: [Yaoi] TezuRyo. Futurefic. Tezuka wakes up in an unfamiliar room with little recollection of the night before. [complete]


**Disclaimer:** Prince of Tennis belongs to Konomi Takeshi and other people who are not me. **

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**In the Light of Day  
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When Tezuka's eyes fluttered open and peered up into a blurry reflection of his own self, bewilderment was the first thing to strike him. The second was the ghastly headache pounding vociferously between his ears. Upon attempting to move, he was struck a third time by the dull ache of tired muscles that hadn't yet had a chance to recover properly. His confusion only intensified as he fumbled for his glasses—which were thankfully found atop the night stand beside the king-sized bed he was apparently reposing in—and scrupulously took in the rest of the unfamiliar room. Given the layout and furnishings, the elegant decor, the mirrored ceiling, it was clearly a hotel room of some sort, though which one and where, Tezuka had no idea.

Which was most disturbing.

A frown crinkled his brow as he tried to recall how he'd gotten there. There had been a party at one of the dorms; Tezuka remembered not wanting to attend and Fuji being so aggravatingly persistent that he'd eventually given in. He remembered arriving, greeting most of the members from the tennis team, and then…

Nothing.

He tried to recall if he'd had too much to drink, for his parched tongue and throbbing head were loudly informing him that he had, but he couldn't remember drinking anything stronger than the juice Fuji had…

Tezuka blinked, and then slowly shook his head. How could he have been so careless? He had known Fuji since middle school—not that Tezuka would ever truly understand him—but still, he should have been a tad more careful given Fuji's rather twisted sense of humor. Releasing a small, exasperated sigh, Tezuka slid his legs off the bed and rose to his—

Gasping softly, he sat back down on the bed with a wince that was as painful as it was startling. What the…? Not only was his whole body aching with an unknown fatigue, but his backside was also unusually sore. And on top of that, he wasn't wearing anything. His clothing appeared to be scattered haphazardly across the floor from the bed to the front door. What could possibly have… happened… to…

Tezuka stopped breathing.

His eyes stared fixedly at the discarded garments, yet his vision had gone hazy with an abrupt loss of focus. It was with an almost benumbed abstractedness that he noted the second set of clothes strewn randomly about his own, and the muffled sound of a shower drifting oh-so quietly from the closed door of the bathroom. Several minutes ticked by as Tezuka listened dazedly to that distant spray of water, his breath finally returning with a ragged, laborious vengeance.

This went above and beyond careless.

How could this have happened? Even if he _had_ been drunk out of his mind, Tezuka just didn't do things like this. Ever. He _did not_ go to wild parties, he _did not_ drink to excess, and he certainly _did not_ wake up the next morning in some unknown man's bed. Except that there on the floor along side his own was an unfamiliar pair of shorts, and a red shirt, and his body hurt in places like never before, and the entire room simply reeked of sex. And he could feel the aftereffects of it all over his skin, clinging with sticky, mocking relish in the most damning locations.

How could he have done this? And _who was that_ in there? Was it someone he knew? Was it some stranger? As his mind frantically searched for the answer, Tezuka could not decide which of the two possibilities would be worse. A stranger would be more personally mortifying, yet would be so much easier to dismiss. But if it was someone he knew, someone like—

A tiny shudder of dread shimmied chillingly up his spine. No, he could not be _that_ foolish. His hand was lifting the phone from its cradle on the night stand a moment later. Twitchy, trembling fingers mechanically punched in the number. It rang far too many times.

"Hello?"

At the sound of the soft, familiar voice, Tezuka exhaled, and then rubbed at the gathered tension between his eyes. "Fuji," he greeted tersely.

"Ah, Tezuka," Fuji said, his tone lavishly spiced with knowing amusement, and Tezuka could virtually see his mirthful smile. "I didn't expect to hear from you this morning. In fact, I expected it would be days before the two of you finally resurfaced."

Tezuka felt his stomach lurch. The words were on the tip of his tongue, yet would not move past his lips. It was an impossible thing to ask, especially of Fuji. Carefully steeling his voice, he asked him a different question instead.

"What was in that juice?"

"Mmm… I don't think it would be wise to answer such an obvious and possibly self-incriminating question."

"Fuji…" Tezuka's eyebrow twitched.

"Don't you think you'd better get back to your new boyfriend?" he said, his inflection slyly insinuating. "I think he might be the jealous type."

Tezuka said nothing.

"By the way, I thought you guys looked really good together… and I think I speak for everyone when I say this: It's about time. Now, before you go condemning any poor, overly-helpful friends, let me remind you that you might have had to wait another five years before anything was done about it. You can be entirely too reserved sometimes, Tezuka."

An intense feeling of incredulity washed over him, drowning any possible response Tezuka might have contrived.

"I'll let you go then," Fuji said magnanimously. "You two have fun, now. You can tell me all about it later. Bye!" The phone clicked into silence.

Tezuka slowly drew back his hand to gaze at the phone in disbelief. It was definitely no stranger then. It was someone he knew.

As far as he could recall, there was no one Tezuka knew who liked him as anything more than a friend. In fact, the person he actually felt closest to was Oishi, but Oishi was practically married to Kikumaru. There was no one else he could think of based on Fuji's vague remarks, and to be honest, there was no one around him that Tezuka felt comfortable enough with to do… well, what he'd clearly done. Could that tainted juice have truly altered his personality that much?

With a deep, weary sigh, Tezuka hung up the phone and then buried his hands in his hair. He resisted the urge to groan aloud. Whoever it was, they would have to talk about this right away, because it was most assuredly not going to happen again. This unknown person was hardly his "boyfriend" and Tezuka could care less how other people saw him. He was not too reserved; he was merely being responsible and careful… well, at least most of the time.

The groan did escape then, small, low and chagrined. This was an absolute nightmare. Who knew what he had told this person? Had he made any foolhardy promises? Inebriated declarations? Or perhaps the man was as embarrassed by the situation as Tezuka. Then they could just chalk this little diversion up to a drunken college fiasco, forget it ever happened, and move on with their lives. Tezuka just wished he was better at handling these kinds of things. He had no clue at all what he was going to say to the guy when he finally emerged from the bathroom. Maybe he ought to prepare something now in anticipation of—

The click of the doorknob was his only warning; Tezuka's head shot up in surprise, his hands immediately dropping to his sheet-covered lap. As the door slowly opened, he absently lamented not getting dressed for the occasion, then realized how absurd that thought was. And then a figure stepped out wearing a loose white towel about slim hips, body lean and muscled, black hair damp and tousled, and Tezuka was instantly arrested by a familiar gleam in scintillating gold eyes.

His whole being froze in paralyzed shock.

One small corner of Echizen Ryoma's mouth quirked up. "Morning," he said, then sauntered casually over to Tezuka's immobilized form.

It had been years…

Tezuka hadn't seen Echizen in _years_, at least, not off the television screen. Not right there before him. Half-naked. Wet. Utterly exquisite.

Echizen never stopped; he simply moved in, effortlessly invading Tezuka's personal space. Warm hands slid across the planes of Tezuka's face, valiantly leading the way for Echizen's soft lips, which pressed firmly, impellingly, against his own. Tezuka never even thought to question it. If Echizen wanted to kiss him, then so be it; Tezuka had always been more than open to the idea. So he eagerly responded to the kiss, to Echizen's flawless serve, and returned it with a light, teasing volley.

It was all so easy; the fit of their mouths as they clashed and parted, the stroke and rhythm of their tongues as they rallied lazily back and forth. Echizen smelled of soap and some fancy hotel shampoo; beneath that was something warm and masculine and pure Ryoma. The taste of him was too unique to suitably identify. They kissed as perfectly as if they had done just so a thousand times in the past. Perhaps last night they had. Then Tezuka found himself being pushed back onto the bed, Echizen following close behind, the bare skin of their torsos meeting and molding pleasurably together.

"Nnnnnn… I want you again already, Kunimitsu," he breathed into his ear with a soft chuckle, and Tezuka shivered beneath the words, beneath his heated flesh, and silently enveloped Echizen's shoulders.

When had he started calling him that?

It was hardly fair; Tezuka felt as if he had lost something invaluable, and he wanted those memories back. At the same time, he felt as if he had just been given the most precious gift in the world. There was so much he wanted to know, so much he wanted to say, but at the moment, what Tezuka wanted most of all was to relive everything he had forgotten.

Gliding his fingers down the smooth curve of Ryoma's back, Tezuka slowly reached for the towel.

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The End


End file.
